Page 55 of Shared Omega

They are bound by their mutual need to protect me.

But that doesn’t mean I have to sit by helplessly like some damsel in distress.

My gun is right where I left it in its holster, next to my crumpled shorts. Acting on sheer reflex, I somersault toward the weapon.

In the back of my mind, I realize how absurd I must look—I’m dripping wet and butt-naked except for a pair of black combat boots—but I don’t let that distract me.

In one smooth motion, I have whipped out the .40-cal and rolled into a crouch, the sights lined up on the tribal Alpha’s center mass.

He’s a big target.

Too bad I don’t have any ammo left.

But he doesn’t need to know that. Hopefully he doesn’t call my bluff.

“Don’t fucking move!” I try to shout, but my voice is embarrassingly hoarse for all of the screaming and loud moaning I’ve been doing for the past good while.

The pierced Alpha’s eyes flick to the muzzle of my gun. He simply sneers. He doesn’t seem too concerned about bullets, and I have no doubt that his enormous size belies his speed. I’ve seen enough evidence of Alphas in the past two days to understand that.

And this guy is no ordinary Alpha.

Still, my gun isn’t the only deadly weapon on my side. I watched Dog brutally dismember a whole damn pack of Farlander Alphas yesterday. And based on the fight this morning, I know that he and Truk are pretty evenly matched.

But they are not taking this new guy lightly, and I don’t blame them.

Then again, the pierced and bearded Alpha hasn’t made a move yet either.

All parties involved are aware that the outcome of this fight is uncertain. The only thing that is certain—once the battle begins, someone is going to die.

The big Alpha snorts, and looks at my protectors with disdain, then back to me.

“Interesting pack,” he growls. “Two Outsiders and a Farlander. I like to kill Outsiders and Farlanders.”

His language is heavily accented, similar to Truk’s but deeper and more guttural. The sound sends a shiver wriggling up my naked spine.

Truk straightens a little.

“I’m no fucking Farlander,” he spits.

The big Alpha turns toward Truk and stares incredulously. He sniffs, testing Truk’s scent.

“A half-breed then,” the Alpha grumbles. “Just as bad.”

Now he turns his stare to me and then Dog.

“And what, pray tell, are you all doing here, so near the homeland of my people?” His eyes glide back to my body, glancing at the mess of wetness between my legs. “Besides the obvious.”

Even in this dangerous situation, I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. It’s one thing to know that Frostgrave and the other scientists have been monitoring our sexual activities. At least it’s easy to forget about that—out of sight, out of mind.

But knowing that this guy caught me in the act with two Alphas at once—it’s so shameful.

I shove those thoughts out of my mind and steady my gun. Meanwhile, Dog and Truk have moved into position. The tension in the air is palpable, like a vibration.

“I’ll repeat my question,” the Alpha snarls, “What are you doing here?”

My mind races as I try to think of an answer. Before I can open my mouth, Truk blurts it out.

“The Outsiders are here on a rescue mission,” he says. “I found them and offered them my services as a guide through the dangerous Farlands.”